Between places
#Lesson 41: lessons from the in-betweens
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Departures habitually leads to arrival. Not always, of course, as with those poetic French dreamers who never left port. But at train stations, bus depots and airports we gaze at departure and arrival boards. We go, we arrive, we set off in return, and reach home again: we live with this momentum.
- Julien Barnes, Departure(s)
This week, I finished Julian Barnes’ Departure(s), a contemplative read on mortality, memory, and the uncertainty of life, and it was nothing like I expected. It got me thinking about something my yoga teacher once shared with me: notice the in-betweens, the transition periods, more than just the destinations themselves.
It has been a while since I paused to look back, but the book made me revisit my past and reflect on the last eleven moves in my life. While many people associate moving with the excitement of departure and the comfort of arrival, for me it was often the opposite. In my earlier years, moving was defined by the sadness of leaving and the uncertainty of starting over.
Yet over time, that gradually transformed into excitement for what lay ahead and comfort in knowing I would adapt. Constant transitions taught me resilience, curiosity, and the ability to embrace change. This post is a reflection on the quiet lessons those transitions taught me.
Leaving
As a child, whenever I was told we were moving somewhere new, usually for my parents’ work, the same two thoughts would immediately come to mind: I would have to say goodbye to my friends, and I would have to start all over again. Unless we were lucky enough to move at the end of a school year, it often meant arriving awkwardly halfway through term, when everyone had already formed their friendship groups and you were suddenly the new kid on the block, again.
As I got older, leaving one place for another began to feel less like simply moving house and more like closing one chapter of life before beginning another. The same can be said for work, teams, and projects. Leaving often comes with excitement, but also a quiet bittersweetness. You leave home and family for the first time. You leave because of circumstances beyond your control. You leave one company for another as you climb the career ladder in search of new challenges.
Packing up your life every two years became strangely routine. Somehow, I would always accumulate so much in such a short period of time, yet I became an expert in the last-minute purge, packing everything away like a carefully catalogued museum archive. It reminds me of an analogy shared by Julian Barnes. Although he meant it in the context of marriage, I find it fitting for packing (no pun intended):
“Well, the first time you put a kitchen in, there’s always something wrong with it. Sink in the wrong place, freezer next to the oven. Not enough drawers, too many shelves, and so on. This is what people say, anyway, I’ve never done it myself. Then the second time you rectify the mistakes of the first one, and get what you wanted.”
The reality of constant moving is that you never feel fully settled before it is time to leave again. It taught me early that very little is permanent, and that some things will always remain beyond your control, whether that is moving for work, circumstance, or simply because your visa has run out.
Arriving
If perfect timing existed, life would be so much easier. Unfortunately, it rarely works in your favour. I’ve joined schools three months after the year had already begun, moved to Berlin only for a COVID-19 lockdown to follow a year later, and been given just five days’ notice to find a new flat for a short three-month stay. And then there are the times I made it harder for myself, like moving with far too much baggage, including a 10kg kettlebell for reasons I still don’t fully understand.
Whether it is arriving somewhere entirely new or returning to a place you have been before, every arrival comes with its own adjustments. There is always a process of adapting, settling, and starting over in some way. Having moved several times on my own, I learned quickly how to rebuild and how important lived experience truly is. Some discomforts can only be overcome by living through them. It is often through discomfort that we grow the most.
Over time, you learn the skill of making unfamiliar places feel familiar. No matter how out of your depth you feel, there is always a way forward. It does not matter how little you know or how overwhelming something seems. Start at the beginning, and take it one small step at a time. It may not guarantee the final destination, but it guarantees progress, and that is far better than standing still, paralysed by the weight of everything at once. With progress comes possibilities.
Home
A question people always ask me is, “Where is home?” I never have a simple answer, and I like that it changes depending on the season of life I am in.
I find the word palimpsest fitting here. It describes something that has been reused or altered, yet still bears traces of its earlier form. That is how I think of home. Every place I have lived has left its mark on me in some way, whether by adding something new or reshaping something already there.
Over time, home stopped being a single place and became something carried rather than fixed. For now, home is Glasgow. But perhaps the beauty of moving so often is realising that home does not need to be permanent to be meaningful.
Home is not just a physical space. It is the sense of comfort, confidence, and belonging you cultivate as you navigate new or difficult situations, whether starting a new job in an unfamiliar environment, moving to a new city, or facing life’s unexpected surprises. Each moment teaches you to adapt, to become comfortable with the uncomfortable, and to find your footing in the world.
There is one final quote from Barnes I would like to leave you with:
Recently, I discovered a word for them: those who part, then after some years seek one another out and fall in love again, are called ‘rekindlers’. Whereas those who try to relight the fire and fail are called ‘non-rekindlers’.
In many ways, home can be rekindled too. Sometimes you return to a place and fall in love with it all over again. Other times, you realise you have outgrown it. Home can be found in the most unexpected places. It may be where you feel a sense of belonging, somewhere far away, a place tied deeply to your culture and roots, or even simply a roof over your head.
For the curious reader
Books that inspired the thoughts on this page — and are worth a look: